


Voluptas

by CalamityCain



Category: Iron Man (Movies), The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blood Drinking, Bondage, Dom/sub, Gags, Lima Syndrome, M/M, Mind Control, Non Consensual, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Vampires, cross-dressing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-15
Updated: 2012-12-18
Packaged: 2017-11-21 04:23:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/593418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CalamityCain/pseuds/CalamityCain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anthony Stark, a powerful vampire with a fatal weakness, is saved by the blood of a jotunn hybrid in a chance encounter. His dependency on the magic blood leads to a series of enactments in which he uses his prisoner to fulfill his twisted desires.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> (I had the biggest shit-eating grin on my face as I was writing this. Just so you know. An exercise in pure indulgence, whereby I managed to fit most of my kinks into one short series.)

~

 

_ANTHONY_

 

The tight stiletto boots hug his calves, rendering them both hard and sinuous. It has been a struggle to squeeze him into the leather – much as it has been a struggle to silence him. His lips are stilled now by the unforgiving steel. Green eyes glare at me with the cold rage of a frozen land. And a flicker, I suppose, of fear.

I straddle him and casually kick his legs apart. A growl escapes the narrow gaps of the muzzle; it turns into a soft keen of pain as I pull his head back by his hair. My lips, my teeth, sink into the river of his neck.

His icy blood fills me…

A part of me that died when the shrapnel pierced my heart quickens back to life. How ironic that this chilled river warms me like no other. Not human blood, nor animal nor that of fellow blood-hunters can save me. Only his – a hybrid jötunn runt whose precious veins held my salvation. Whose quicksilver beauty I must corrupt over and over to keep myself alive.

The cross-dressing is merely a flourish. A fetish of mine, I must admit.

How delightful it had been to force him into the corset that made of his lithe maleness a woman’s frame, and the elbow-length gloves with laces that cleverly fastened to keep the wrists pinned together behind the back. I have a collection of such garments. It only pains me that so few are beautiful enough to wear them well.

Beautiful, and powerful. For I had chosen him for his ruthlessness as much as his fair visage.

But wait. What of my supposedly immortal heart, you ask? It had been damaged by a cunning vampire killer, whose clever arrows leased explosive slivers upon hitting their target. In a moment of carelessness, I became a target. But for my immense age and immense strength I would have burned right from the inside.

Instead, I stumbled slowly and painfully toward death for three moons. Until a half-giant tried to stab me.

 

~

 

Our meeting was not at all pre-arranged, but it was predestined. I had been hunting in the dark forest of the Carpathians, hoping for a catch big enough to fill me for at least a week. Prey was scarce of late – the jötnar, hulking creatures of frost and stone, haunted these woods more and more as troublesome settlers pushed them out of their own territory and into mine.

We clashed over a kill – a fine buck deer. I remember the flash of his smile and his knife. He was small for a jötunn. But filled with a fierce and terrible need to prove himself a hunter.

He was no match for me. Much as he towered over me, the steel I wore to protect my vulnerable heart was an advantage. The breastplate, especially, was a reinforced alloy crafted with knowledge I had obtained from a decade of experimentation.

I let him plough his knife into my armoured chest – then I trapped him in my immortal arms and drank of him.

It was then that I knew. With the frost-tinged blood came a rush of wonderful healing warmth. It took such restraint to stop myself from draining every drop. When his hard body grew soft in my arms, when his breathing slowed and his jewel-like eyes grew glazed and distant, I pulled back.

I carried him home as if he were a treasured child. A few times he stirred to half-consciousness, but my spell and his drained state pulled him back under.

As I laid him in my bed for the first time, I kissed his brow. This strange and exquisite being, with features so much finer than his kin, must always be mine.

My prisoner. My saviour.

 

~

 

He is stiff in my grip still, not having given up the fight. But he is also trembling slightly. The clammy touch of his skin tells me he has weakened. I lick the last few drops from the wound. A small painful breath, almost maiden-like, emerges from the muzzle. It sounds very much like pleasure.

“What did you say, my beloved?” I whisper tenderly as I pull the laces of the corset tighter. Another painful gasp.

I find the sight almost unbearable: his tall, strong body caged in the exacting constraints of my sadistic adornments. He struggles to breathe. The muscles in his fair arms stand out from the discomfort of the gloves. He was a deep blue when I met him. But the warmth of the hearth-fire turns him into marble and cream. A mysterious hybrid, indeed; he won’t tell me his origins. With the steel gag I have forced on him, he will not be telling me anything tonight.

I kiss his hard sloping cheekbone. I nibble lightly his ear. In the flickering shadows, it seems we embrace like lovers. Perhaps it is love – on my part, at least. I do love him. I am in love with my beautiful pet.

One last drink, my dear. My teeth sink in again. He buckles and gasps.

Then I pull him down into the dark whirl of my centuries-old desolation, and bid him fill me with joy again. His brilliant eyes roll back, flutter, fall close.

My saviour surrenders. 

 

~


	2. Chapter 2

~

 

_ANTHONY_

 

The young doe’s blood, heated gently over a stove, burns my throat pleasurably the way fine brandy used to. I hold the glass with both hands to soak in its warmth. It is a different pleasure from the chilled silver rush of my jötunn slave. One far more familiar.

I think of my beloved Miss Potts on nights like these. When the wind howls and even the smallest rooms fail to conserve their heat, I think of her warm strong embrace.

My first true love. My first victim.

A sigh from the couch draws me from my dark dreams. My slave – my saviour – is waking.

His eyes slide in the direction of my approaching shadow, still glassy from the lack of blood. It will be some days before he fully recovers; but I will not need him for a time. I bend over and kiss him. His soft lips are cold.

“When you are more awake, my dearest, we shall dine together,” I say. He merely turns away; languid, scornful. I take hold of his jaw and force him to look at me.

“Now, now. Is that any way to treat your master?”

“You are not _my_ mast – “ I cut him off with a backhand blow. He hisses and falls silent.

His limbs are boneless in the pillows, freed from the earlier constraints. I pull toward me and tighten my fingers over the hard jötunn bones, threatening to break them. Involuntary tears spring to his eyes from the pain.

“Who is your master?” I whisper.

His lips clamp shut. I squeeze harder, harder, till a rib cracks and he cries out at last. I drag him from the couch and release him; he falls to his knees, hurt replacing pride. Hurt, and an instinct to survive.

The jötnar are hardy creatures. They have the pride of warriors, yes; but more than that, they were bred to endure. Even if it meant kneeling before an enemy.

He looks so soft, so _human_ in the firelight. I fall in love all over again.

I cup his face in my hand and tilt his fine-boned face toward me.

“Who is your master, _Loki?”_

His lips quiver only slightly.

_“You are.”_

“Good.” I stroke his hair. “Now, bend over.”

He resists, of course, pride coursing fiercely even now; but he is drained and I overpower him easily. Before long he is unclothed, pliant, and curved to meet my own comfortless flesh. His knees and his palms press against the carpet.

I wish to take him as a man. But some of my human organs have long lost their function. Ah, such is the curse of an otherwise invincible being! I feel a bitter laugh building up in my throat.

In another time, another life, I would have been kinder. I would have seduced him properly, as a true gentleman, and never lay a violent hand against him. As it is we are not lovers and equals – as I would have it – but hunter and hunted. And I find myself drowning my sudden bitterness in the lash of a riding crop.

He stifles the sounds of his pain. But he cannot hold them back for long. For my hand is merciless, and the crop is made for the most stubborn of stallions. Not for all-too-breakable flesh. Again and again the whip rains down. Again and again, he spills short sharp exhalations like wordless pleas for mercy. Ah, mercy. A supply of which I am running low.

Twenty lashes. Thirty. Surely by now, his every instinct tells him to curl up in defence, to fight, or to flee. Instead he remains deliciously obedient. On his hands and knees, he does not stray from his position of punishment.

The crop quivers a last time in my grip. I stop just short of making him bleed.

Loki shakes with silent tears. I kneel beside him and hold him to my chest.

It is useless to fight, and he knows it.

Tenderly I kiss away the pain. I murmur soft words into his ear, hypnotic words laced with the iron of my will, until his eyelids are at half-mast and he lies dazed in my arms.

My love. My victim. My saviour. My slave. In another life, I would make you mine in such ways that brings pleasure to you as much as myself.

But we are mere creatures of circumstance. And this is the life we live now.

As the sun rises, I cradle him tightly and sleep.

 

~


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm having some problem with the paragraph spacing despite having tweaked the formatting. If there's anything wonky or inconsistent, do let me know...

~

_LOKI_

_What month is it?_

I wake to a cold blue glow, too harsh for the moon of winter night.

Darkness. Strange fabric. Suffocation. I am surrounded by hard wood, polished to the touch, and smooth; too smooth. Everything is unreal and everything is _closing in_ and I’m trapped _am I dead, I can’t breathe, I can’t –_

“Be still, pet, or you will die of your own foolishness.” A soft, rumbling voice tickles my throat. An arm coils around me. I am reminded of a chimera.

I force my lungs to stop heaving. But it is difficult; my body is not my own. My skin feels too soft. My every pore aches for air. I feel as if someone has poured out parts of my mind and replaced them with something else.

Then the voice creeps up my spine, a slithering command. “Go back to sleep.”

My mind slips away.

 

* * *

 

I wake again. This time to real air – warm, heavy, but real enough nonetheless.

My head is cradled by softness; that is, till something tugs on my throat. A leather collar. I trace the chain to which it is attached and find on the other end the chimera of my nightmare.

My captor.

He tugs once on the chain. And once is all I need to rise to my knees. Have I been trained as such? Why do I respond to each twitch of this monster’s hand? What am I, what have I _become – ?_

Another tug. “Come now, love. Time to play.”

Before I know it, I am crawling. My hands and knees brush against a thick soft carpet the colour of drying blood. I crawl until my forehead touches the wooden leg of a finely carved table. I want to cry. But jötunn, unlike humans, do not shed tears liberally. So I remain hard as ice.

“Are you comfortable?” he asks. Stark, I believe is his name. (I do not know how I know this; it is simply _there,_ at the back of my head.) He allows me to lean against the table leg before running careful hands down my thighs and gently spreading them. Each finger is meticulously groomed, I note, despite the slightly calloused fingers. The hands of an aristocrat who hunts his own game and shoots his own guns.

My limbs stiffen at his touch. He is the enemy – this much I know. But then he turns my gaze to his and his warm brown eyes meet mine, and I am drowning in the gold of his irises. He kisses me. I melt into him like mist.

A cool tickle of air slips between my legs and stimulates what lies there ever so sweetly. I realise belatedly that I am naked. When did my clothing leave me? Is this not-quite-human, this Stark, a master of sorcery as well as master of my body?

Then one hand curls around my shaft, and I forget myself. I fear for a second that he will crush me and I will know the most terrible pain a male might endure – but instead, he strokes me tenderly, like long-time lovers do. I gasp. I shudder. My fingers clench fistfuls of carpet as I rise involuntarily to meet the slow, relentless rhythm.

With each motion he brings me closer and closer to climax. Senses heightened, vivid pictures rush through my head: of winter days and the harsh light of a mountain top, of whispering leaves in the wind-ruffled woods, of long arduous hunts at the edge of the Carpathians. I think of my childhood. I think of the fateful day I met Stark and tried to kill him over a slain deer. Then there is only blood; blood, rapid and swirling and pounding, taking over my loins and pushing me over the edge

– and then, suddenly, he stops.

My swollen organ is begging for release. Instinctively I reach down, but before I can even touch myself his hand shoots out to stop me.

 

“No, Loki,” he says. “You do not come except at my command.”

A keening cry nearly escapes me. I push it down. The agony brings tears to my eyes, which I also hold back. In his iron grip I shiver with unreleased lust, all the while begging please, please please –

He smiles as if he can hear my unspoken pleas. But it is not a smile of mercy. In the next second I feel the cold touch of steel around my wrists as he fastens me to the table leg.

“What do you wish to achieve with this, Stark?” I hiss.

“Pleasure, my love. As always.”

He strokes me a little more, drawing fresh gasps and fresh torment.

“ _My_ pleasure, that is. But perhaps, with more than a little left for you.”

The lovemaking, the drawn-out torture, continues. Repeatedly my steel restraints cut into the wood as I writhe (loathing myself for it) helpless in the thrall of his manipulations. Once or twice he stops – just to force a cry from my lips. In the end, it is useless to resist. In the end, all I can do is drown in my shame and my pleasure as his fingers bring me to a red-hot point of painful bliss.

Just before I explode, he sinks his teeth into me. There is the wetness of my blood; then release, hot and thick down my thighs.

The world is pulled headlong into blackness. And I with it.

~


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is all I initially had, but I'm thinking of extending the tale and adding chapters. Anyone got any burning kinks they need to see fulfilled? Be a good girl/boy and give me suggestions in the comments

~

 

_LOKI_

 

His heart is fragile. I know that much.

Once, I snuck a brief touch to explore that curiosity embedded in his chest. My head had ended up against the nearest wall for it. He is almost invincibly strong; a firm gesture of his hand can send me flying. It is a lesson I should have learnt well. But my species is a hard one, made to bear the harshest blows of winter and the uncertainties of the wild. The Carpathians are mild in comparison with my homeland. And I had been – briefly – happy in our new hunting grounds.

And then I made the mistake of challenging him over a kill.

Now I grace his bed like an elaborate ornament, restrained by silk, and by the constant touch of his voice at the back of my mind. My will is but a thing Stark plays with like a prized toy; ever has it been since I fell into his grasp. He manipulates it as he now manipulates my sex, stroking it with skill and rhythm.

I would cry out were it not for the silk digging into my mouth. Knotted so as to still my tongue and teeth, while leaving my lips exposed enough for him to kiss and tease and nibble. The same fabric hold my arms and legs in a deadlock.

“Loki,” he murmurs, over and over. His mouth – roughened slightly by dark stubble – traces circles around my navel, paints warm streaks on my hipbones.

I want to come. He will not let me.

_“Mmmmfffhhh.”_ The sound I make, repeatedly and with rising frequency, as he pulls me to the edge of bursting while controlling my body to such a degree that I fail to climax without his consent.

“You belong to me,” he is saying. “Every nerve, every hair, every inch of you. Jotunn runt. Changeling. Do you know how perfect you are?” Two of his fingers snake their way between my thighs, into my entrance. I gasp. “Know this: I can destroy you with a twitch of my hands. I could tear you from the inside without ever getting out of bed.” The fingers push deeper.

_“Nnnfhh!”_

His voice softens. “But I never will.” Now almost worshipful, he kisses the underside of my calves, one by one. “I love you, my prince. My precious.”

The two fingers become three. They slide in with serpentine grace, moving me from within, loosening me. He cannot penetrate me like a mortal man; this I know. But he can do so much more.

I rock to his rhythm. I feel myself reduced to a seamless thing of muscle and skin and bone. I am nothing. Nothing, nothing, _nothing._

My sex is hardening again. This time it swells to almost twice its size, alarmingly stiff, and painful in its arousal. Against my will I struggle. Against my will, he makes me arch. Tears spill down my face. Four fingers now, manipulating, forcing, flexing. Not so long ago I vowed I would not cry for him. That vow shatters around my ears again and again. Soon enough I am wet and hot all over. Salt-laced bliss, oozing from every pore.

A beautiful sensation.

As my moans rise in frequency, he clamps a hand around my jaw. “I wish you to be quiet now.” He withdraws briefly from inside me to refasten my gag. The excess fabric trailing from the knot is wound around my face now, stifling me further, cutting all air from my mouth. I draw a long hard breath through my nose. The discomfort – the perverse pleasure – makes me dizzy.

Who knew silk could be so strong? My restraints hold me as ruthlessly as ever, letting me writhe only in narrow inches and subtle undulations. He licks the base of my neck. My eyes sting; my uneven breaths make me shudder. With expert hands and tongue he continues to bring me to the edge of release only to pull me back. My desperation is his delight. He revels in my torment. He breathes in my sweat and struggles and small stifled pleas as if he lives on them.

 

At some point – I know not when – I lose consciousness. Time passes strangely in the glow of his spell.

 

When I next open my eyes, my limbs are unbound. They are also leaden – held down by an invisible force. More magic, Stark’s brand of sorcery. Or perhaps he has drugged me. I know of his collection of exotic poisons. Something like poison (not lethal but strong nonetheless) courses through me and holds me still. My lips remain sealed. I remain unable to free them.

Then I feel my legs being sheathed in gossamer; light, translucent. Fabric that feels more like a breath upon the skin.

“You look beautiful in hose,” he says conversationally. “I entertained the thought of garters. But these are far better.” The ‘hose’ as he calls in reaches right up to my waist. My erection – only slightly less swollen than before – looks obscene to me, pushing against the gossamer cloth. But it is soon covered by a woman’s garb. The upper portion hugs my chest and abdomen tightly, though not uncomfortably (unlike that constricting leather thing of laces and under-wires he has forced on me before). The skirt, a pool of cream-white, falls over my hips and legs.

I have seen such garments before. White trimmed with lace: the bridal garments of human females worn in marriage ceremonies.

It would seem I am his bride tonight. In the drawing of blood he will bind me to his side.

As I close my eyes, I see the flash of teeth. He lowers his lips to my neck.

And I – his bride and slave – rise to meet him.

 

~

**Author's Note:**

> _Note: Narrator POV is indicated by the name at the beginning of each chapter. Just to avoid any confusion._


End file.
